


Zâbad

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Gaearon Rhunen [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, GFY, Kidnapping, Violence, between Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, canon character death, implied original character death, lost child coming home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dís had thought she had lost all her close kin with the fall of her sons and her brother in the Battle of Five Armies, but still she returned to Erebor, because where else was home? Fifty years after those deaths, she sees what appears to be a ghost of her dead brother, and wonders if something many years before the quest had been more than it appeared.</p><p>Tíli had always thought of herself as a crafter's daughter, a smith by trade, and a friend of the avari who dwell to the east of the mountain halls she had grown up in. She had known her parents weren't hers by blood, but she'd never had any inkling of who those who gave her life were. When she finds out, she's not at all certain what to do with that information - save not what's expected of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zâbad

**Author's Note:**

> A note on languages and names - when Serik is pronouncing "Thorin", it sounds more like "Toreen". And while the names of Serik and her people are pulled from actual Earth languages, they're not assumed to be pronounced quite the same - nor are they all pulled from the same language.
> 
> The title is - as far as I can determine - Khuzdul for "lord" (which since I can't find something for king, is sufficient to my purposes).
> 
> Also, some head-canon has been borrowed from [Valandhir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir) regarding dwarrows.
> 
> And last, but very much not least - many thanks to [lferion ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion)for providing a sounding board, several ideas, and encouragement for this story. Without that, this might not have come about.

**Third Age, 2886  
River Running**

Serik carefully bundles the girl in swaddling, tucking her in the basket of bloodied towels that she would carry back to her tent. They would have to leave, so to avoid the bad luck the girl would bring if she remained. Glancing at the sleeping mother, and the tiny boy cradled against the dwarrow-woman's breast, she nods to herself, satisfied that she had chosen rightly which would remain. The boy would be needed for the dwarrow prince as heir; the girl would be well-loved in the east.

She hefts the basket to her hip, stepping out of the tent to speak quietly with the dwarrow who had waited outside. "You should bring Prince Thorin to her. The boy lives, as does his mother, but both are weak and will need close care. Prince Thorin should be with them as much as he can."

The dwarrow nods, and Serik slips away with the basket and the girl-child, trying not to hurry so greatly that the dwarrows notice her doing so. Only once back among her own camp does she hurry to her tent, prodding her husband awake with her foot. He looks at her with a small frown until she sets the basket on the ground in front of him, the dwarrow-girl stirring and letting out a thin wail of hunger. Serik knows there is one of the women of the People who will be able to nurse the dwarrow-girl as they cross the great plain.

"Tonight, Jyrgal. There is a dwarrow-prince new-born for Prince Thorin." It is all she needs say, and he nods, helping her to begin to wake their children and to pack what they need to take with them. What cannot be packed swiftly, and is not needed for the passage of the plain will be left behind.

Their daughter is sent to rouse Jyrgal's sister and her family, and from there to his brother and Aiday. They must leave, they must get the dwarrow-girl far from her twin as they might before morning, so both might live. One will not steal the breath and soul of the other, Serik will not allow it.

Beds are rolled, tents struck, pots and clothing and all the tools of their living packed onto their horses as swiftly as they might in the dark that will all too swiftly become dawn. Serik finds Aiday, and passes the dwarrow-girl to her that she might nurse her, before Serik takes her onto her own back, so the child might not think she has a different twin than the one she has been separated from.

The thin light of the rising sun greets them as they pass beyond the ridges that will hide them from the dwarrow-camp, Jyrgal leading them east across the greening spring plains toward distant mountains that are not yet even a smudge on the horizon. Serik watches the pale disc as it rises, hoping she has acted with enough speed that the dwarrow-prince will live, and so will the dwarrow-girl.

* * *

**Third Age, 2886  
River's Cradle Western Gate, Orocarni**

"She is the younger of the twins." Serik lays the dwarrow-girl into the arms of Glaurikh, a smile crossing her face a moment. Serik knows they will love the dwarrow-girl, and they will raise her as their own, having not had a child of their own. "The name her mother and father had spoken of for her was Tíli."

Glaurikh is studying the child laid in his arms, holding her with the care of a father already. There is also a faint anger in his expression, but Serik is certain it is not for the child, for the gift she has brought their allies in the mountains. "Who were her parents? Her mother, her father?"

Serik frowns slightly, trying to recall the names. She had been certain of the father, but of the mother, she couldn't remember. "Thorin was the father. I do not recall I heard the mother's name, but the father's sister was Dis." She traced gentle fingers over the dwarrow-girl's forehead. "Her brother is still with them, and they will both live. Care for her well, Glaurikh, for she is a precious one."

"We will." Glaurikh met her gaze a long moment, silent. "Thank you for bringing her here, Serik."

She nods, and turns away, back to the waiting horses and Jyrgal, so they can make their way down from the gates of the mountains to their camp. They will have to stay among the feet of the mountains through the high summer, but it will all be well, to see the dwarrow-girl where she can safely be raised.

* * *

**Third Age, 2991  
Erebor**

Tíli pauses on the rise of ground that gives her a good view of the river leading up toward the main gate of Erebor. Another city built by men lies between her and the mountain, the city called Dale according to those she's talked to on the long journey across the great plain. It shouldn't be a long journey, though, and she smiles to herself. Soon, she should be able to see other dwarrows once more, dwarrows who might be able to tell those who brought her into life were.

Her companion lets out a small huff of amusement, nudging her gently. She hadn't expected Ráva to even want to come with her, much less for the avari to accompany her west. Certainly he's the only of his kin who has demonstrated a desire to come this far from their home.

"The culmination of our journey." Ráva's voice holds a note of uncertainty that makes Tíli smile to herself.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps merely a point along the way. Who knows if they will have any news of those who were the dwarrows I was stolen from without their knowing?" Tíli hitches her pack higher on her shoulders before starting down the gentle slope back toward the river, and toward the Dale. "If they have aught, I will be glad for it, but if no, then I will continue to travel as far as I must to find the answers to my questions."

"And I shall, as I have sworn, travel with you." Ráva catches up with her readily, his legs longer than her own, though she is tall for a dwarrow. He glances to their left, and the forest which is not too far distant. "Though I shall wager we may hope to find an answer with western-walking eldar if the dwarrows of Erebor have nothing for your questions."

Tíli nods, though she hopes Erebor has the answers she's seeking. Perhaps, even, the dwarrows who she was stolen from so long ago. It will be enough to know who they were, but there is still a hope nestled in her heart that she will meet them.

* * *

Dís is watching the road that marches up to the gates of Erebor more to attempt to banish old pains than to assist those guarding it, when she sees what she could almost believe is a ghost. That she is not seeing a ghost of her memory is only assured when she hears murmurs from others who were familiar enough with Thorin to recognize his face - and his kin, because the blood of Durin runs strong. The elf that is at the side of the dwarrow coming on the road from Dale also makes a ghost unlikely. Dís does not think even being reborn could make Thorin fond enough of any elf as to travel with one.

Her eyes narrow as she watches the approaching dwarrow, and after a long moment, she turns to descend from the walls to where she can properly meet the dwarrow-woman. For it must be a dwarrow-woman under the familiar clothing of a dwarrow on the road, with the sharper lines of her face, the smoother skin of her brow, the set of her shoulders.

Dís only knows of one dwarrow her brother ever lay with, and she remembers the blood and fear of the last days Tyrdis had lived. The dead son, and the vanished midwife and entirely too great amount of blood that had come with the afterbirth. The questions she had never voiced.

"Your name, and what business brings you to Erebor." Those who watch the gate are brisk and efficient, and already throwing suspicious looks at the elf and the dwarrow who have arrived at the gate.

"I am Tíli, of River's Cradle. My companion is Ráva, of the Hîthduin." The dwarrow-woman's voice is strong and deep, the accent of her Khuzdul somewhat different, but still clear. "I come seeking answers to questions left me, which pointed me west and north to here."

Dís pauses out of sight, ensuring she is as neat as she can be, having all but fled down the stairs from the wall over the gate. The dwarrow-woman still looks much as Thorin had in his younger days when Dís comes into view of the open gates. The elf beside her, though, is curiously different from those she has seen before. Still too smooth of skin, too tall and finely-made, like spun glass, but darker than any elf she has met.

"And what questions were left to you, that you seek to answer, Tíli of River's Cradle?" The name is the one Thorin and Tyrdis had chosen for a daughter, a nod to Tyrdís's brother Víli, and to the two sons he had left Dís to raise when he had died under the rocks of the Ered Luin. It makes Dís's heart ache for all that she has lost.

Tíli turns from those who are recording what she has said in their books, studying Dís with clear, dark blue eyes that are alike to Thorin's as much as is her height and the black of her hair and beard. Only the braids she wears are different, they speak of parents who did not bear her, and who have passed on to Mahal's halls, speak of no siblings or bond-mate or children, speak of no battles, only a mastery of her craft.

"The questions were several, and some troubling. Others are not ones I would share with all and sundry, but only kin and kith." She crosses her arms over a broad chest, a faint frown on her face. "I know only kith and kin in the Red Mountains, though I am told I have kin in the west. Given only two names, though none of the Red Mountains have ever known to who those names belong."

"What names were those?" Dís stops just out of arm's reach of Tíli, keeping the elf within her line of sight, though he remains still and silent behind Tíli's shoulder.

"Torin, and Dís." In the first, Dís can hear the fumbling of the midwife - dead long years now, she must be - over Thorin's name, and every other name of the dwarrows who had been there.

"Thorin," she corrects, her voice rough-edged despite her dry eyes and determinedly impassive expression. "My brother's name was Thorin." And curse the midwife and her line for stealing a joy from her brother that might have meant he lived. That might have meant they all lived, instead of her sons dying in front of Erebor in defense of her fallen brother.

Tíli is silent, her expression unreadable as she watches Dís. "And you are called Dís?"

"Dís, daughter of Thráin." She nods her head, and Tíli smiles for a moment, though the expression is uncertain and fleeting. As if her niece - and niece she must be, that she looks so alike to Thorin - is uncertain of her welcome among kin.

Dís looks to the gate-keepers, who are watching Tíli with a wariness that is born from their loyalties to Dáin, and she does not begrudge them that, for all that it should still be one of the elder line of Durin who holds the title her cousin has taken. A title Dís had not truly wanted, but would have taken up if she had been with Thorin at his fall, instead of preparing to leave the Ered Luin with other exiles who would return to Erebor.

"They will be my guests under the mountain." Dís is not certain she should trust the elf, but she will not offend or dishonor her niece by refusing him guest-right. "Given leave to remain as long as they wish." Until Tíli rests under the stone, long after Dís has already been in her tomb.

* * *

Tíli had not expected to find any answers so soon, nor to be led through to rooms large enough for her to fit her own modest home and forge in and still have space to move left. It's strange, when she still thinks of herself as a crafter's daughter, a commoner, no matter how wealthy a silver-smith could be. These aren't the rooms of a commoner, but a noble, at least, a lord under the stone.

"Your kin are more than you've thought." Ráva settles into one of the chairs with the ease of an avari who's long been friend of dwarrows, as comfortable under the stone as under the sky. Tíli wishes she were as comfortable as her friend, even when no longer under the sharp gaze of her aunt. There had been a sorrow in Dís' gaze that Tíli shies away from, not wanting to think on what might have caused it.

"More than was ever told us," Tíli corrects, settling with less ease on another chair. They're deep in the mountain, as well as in large and comfortable halls, and despite her uncertainty, the closeness to the deeps and the heart of Arda is comforting.

"More than expected." Ráva has a thoughtful expression on his face. "She has the same clarity to the flame within her." He doesn't have to mention who he's talking about, when there's only one dwarrow-woman on Tíli's mind, and his words make her tilt her head. "If I noticed it in you, when you were only a dwarfling, then I would notice it too in her, unless she had training to hide it."

"As my mentors trained me." Tíli hesitates to say the names of her best teacher, since Haldasîcil never does travel - indeed, without the strength of the talent that must be passed through her father Thorin's blood, she does not think he would even have agreed to teach her, though she would come to him. "You think she truly is my kin, the aunt whose name the midwife told my father."

"As much as she believes you to be her kin." Ráva shrugs, leaning back in the seat, looking up at the ceiling, stretching out long legs toward the cold hearth. "It is possible she is not, but even here, I see few who have such a clarity of flame. And none, save Dís, who have a greater clarity of flame than those in the Orocarni halls have as great a focus and clarity as you and Dís. That I have met as yet."

Which has not been many, as Dís had not done much more than take them to where they would have rooms, and asked them to join her for dinner when they're ready. Tíli is glad for the time to think, and will be glad too for the meal when they return to the outer room.

* * *

"You know Dáin isn't going to be pleased you invited guests into the mountain without his knowledge or permission, Dís." Dwalin watches his cousin with his arms crossed over his chest, as Dís directs her staff in preparing a meal for her guests. Guests that Dwalin has already heard rumors of, even before the summons from Dís came to join her for dinner. He's not certain he wants to believe the one that rumor says it is a young Thorin - or a ghost of Thorin - who has come to claim his throne and crown back from Dáin.

"Dáin can keep his grumblings to himself, or he can go through me to attempt to deny hospitality to either of my guests." Dís steps away from the organized chaos of a meal being made, closer to where Dwalin is standing. There is a light in her eyes that Dwalin has not seen since he brought news to her of the deaths of her sons, and of Thorin, and he wonders that a dwarrow who travels with an elf could cause such. "They will stay as long as they wish."

Dwalin shrugs, studying her for a long moment. "Why did you want me at dinner tonight, Dís?"

Dís remains silent a moment, her gaze darting here and there as she watched her staff. They didn't need supervision - Dís wouldn't have incompetents - but Dwalin thinks she is anxious that this dinner be done perfectly, perhaps. "I would have someone else meet them, who might be able to tell me if I am seeing more simply because I wish to see more."

"You see clearer than most dwarrows, Dís." Dwalin doubts she's wrong about whatever she's thinking, but he's uneasy at the thought of her guests now. The rumors can't be merely rumors if she's looking like she has hope once more. "Who are your guests?"

"The dwarrow is Tíli of River's Cradle." Dís glances at him a moment. "The elf she named as Ráva of the Hîthduin."

Both place names that come from the far eastern part of the world, and places that Dwalin recognizes, even if he's not properly been to either. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, wondering what brought a dwarrow of the Orocarni west - much less what might have brought one of the rumored elves of the east to travel from home.

"An eastern elf." Dwalin frowns, shifting slightly to lean against the wall. "And a dwarrow of the Orocarni."

"Far enough from Erebor that we have not had even word from them in an age." Dís sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Though I wonder if they might have some trade or ties with the Iron Hills."

They're close enough, Dwalin thinks, but he still hasn't heard of one coming as far west as Erebor - and none that came south to his company had been to the Iron Hills. "They might do, but like as not, only the northern halls. None of those in the southern mountains ever spoke of the Iron Hills, nor carried anything that I might have recognized as Iron Hills make."

Dís is silent a moment, and still. "Perhaps." There's something niggling at her, Dwalin thinks, but she keeps her own counsel, and he's not fool enough to try to pry out of Dís what she doesn't yet want to share. "Tell me about those dwarrows you met in the east."

There isn't enough time before dinner is ready to tell Dís everything, but Dwalin knows what she's asking, and talks more of Vorkha and of Orvar, both from Dragon's Reach, and of the city under the trees that marched up the slopes of that set of peaks. The men of Dragon's Teeth, and their close friendship with the dwarrows of Dragon's Reach, and the elf Moriornë - the only elf he's heard coming over the Orocarni, and who never traveled beyond the Wild Wood.

* * *

Ráva watches the dwarrows at the table as he eats, trying to figure them out. Dís had introduced the one - bald, and with a reputation that Ráva has heard of, for there cannot be two dwarrow of the same name with the same affliction - as Dwalin, and another as Bofur, who had arrived very nearly late. They're all focused on Tíli, and very nearly ignoring him, a situation he finds quite agreeable.

Bofur had stared at Tíli for a long moment when he arrived, as if seeing a ghost, though he had shaken it off soon enough, and greeted her properly. Dwalin had been less shaken when they'd come out for dinner, though he'd looked at Tíli with a frown, and given Ráva much the same. Little surprise, as it is difficult to mistake him and his brother for anything but kin, and Moriornë travels often to the Wild Wood.

Why they all look at Tíli with expressions of mixed surprise and hope, he isn't quite certain, and less so the flashes of anger when Dís looks away. As if there is something about either Tíli or the situation that doesn't sit quite right with her, and it's niggling at him.

"Lady Dís, if I may be so rude as to ask, where is your brother Thorin?" Ráva watches as they all fall silent, a sense of grief intruding on the scene, and glances at Tíli. Her expression closes, a flash of irritation in her eyes a moment before there is nothing to read. At least he knows the source of her irritation - the midwife who had assisted her birth, and brought her across the great plain to Glaurikh and Daugir.

"He fell defending Erebor from orcs." Dís' reply is rich with both grief and pride, and Ráva tilts his head in acknowledgment of both. The battle after the retaking of Erebor from the dragon, then, is when he must have fallen - the tale of that had come east, but details had been neglected, such as the names of the slain. He wonders which of those had been Thorin.

"A good death." Tíli's voice is steady, though Ráva knows she will give voice to the pain of not being able to meet her closest kin when they are away from the others. To find her kin only to know she's lost much of them - and with the absence of her mother and the twin that had been the cause of her theft, Ráva would be little surprised to learn they too are dead - is a grief that will have to cut deep.

"It was." There is an undercurrent of tired anger beneath the words now, and Ráva studies Dís' face, trying to read her expression. She doesn't say anything more, nor can he read what might have caused that anger in her face. Another glance at Tíli, and he keeps his peace for now. There is time enough to learn the undercurrents of this place, and the secrets of her kin.

* * *

"She looks like the ghost of Thorin." Bofur is sitting in the safe quiet of the series of interconnected chambers he shares with Bombur and Bifur, with several of the former company visiting. Most of them hadn't been invited to dinner, and he's surprised Lady Dís had invited him, of all the others. Surely she should have invited Dáin or Glóin, who were kin? "Younger, maybe, but still as alike to Thorin as can be."

"Where is she from?" Nori is curious, though Bofur doesn't know if it's simply a desire for information, or an interest in where else he could go and be trouble for dwarrows.

"The Orocarni." Bofur leans his head back to look up at the ceiling, though not so far back as for his hat to fall off. "She travels with an elf, actually, and he's a strange sort, for an elf. All bronzy skin like he's been in the sun, and dark eyes and hair. And polite, too, not at all arrogant."

"Huh." Glóin looks like he's not quite sure he can take that on Bofur's word, and Bofur hopes Dís invites someone else over for dinner tomorrow. He doesn't want to be the only one telling the rest about Tíli. "What's the girl's name, anyway?"

"Tíli." Bofur had been reminded of the two youngest of their company, of Fíli and Kíli, fallen in the battle to defend Erebor. He wonders if maybe it had been something other than coincidence that her name matched theirs - and if Lady Dís had thought that too. "She introduced herself as Tíli of River's Cradle, rather than naming her father or mother."

"Does she not know them?" Bombur looks concerned, and Bofur shrugs. "It certainly couldn't be that she was orphaned and never taken in; no one would turn away an orphan."

"I don't know, as I didn't ask her. She didn't seem to want to talk about it." And Bofur isn't going to say just how much she'd resembled Thorin when she'd decided not to talk about something, just going quiet and still and refusing to answer. At least she hadn't been snappish and almost cruel, the way Thorin could be in a foul mood. "She's only been here the afternoon and evening - probably doesn't trust anyone enough to talk about her family."

There's some amused chuckles around, the thought that Thorin had never trusted easily probably shared among them. They settled into a companionable silence for a brief while, the sound of knife of wood coming from where Bifur had been sat earlier. More toys crafted, and all the good. Bofur wonders what he's carving now, and shifts to look over toward his cousin, hoping to see without getting up.

 _For the princess._ Bifur signs without doing more than setting his knife down, brushing off a stray curl of shaved wood from what looks like it might become a horse. He returns to carving as Bofur settles back into his chair once more, a small frown on his face. They don't even know if Tíli is even really any relation to Thorin, but apparently Bifur, at least, has decided she must be. Either that, or he's carving it for Dís, but Bofur doubts that.

With a small sigh, he shrugs, and settles in to smoke his pipe for now, listening to the others discussing the new arrivals.

* * *

Tíli paces the bedroom, roused early from sleep by uneasy dreams, and wanting nothing more than to work at a forge, to put the energy into activity. But she isn't certain she dare ask if there is a forge she might work at in Erebor, not when she's come with little wealth but what she could carry - the rest remains in River's Cradle, in the care of her cousins until she returns for it, or enough years have passed for them to assume her dead or uncaring.

Sighing, she shakes her head, going to her pack, and hunting through it for her comb, settling at the hearth, combing out her beard and hair before beginning to plait it. Braids for an orphan with no living siblings, intricate patterns learned at Daugir's knee as a dwarfling. Braids for her mastery of her craft, for the home she grew up in. All held with clasps of silver-chased steel, passed from her adoptive parents to her. It passes an hour, making herself neat for the day.

A clean tunic and trousers, socks and boots laced close to her feet, and Tíli grimaces, pacing for a moment longer before she pushes open the door, making her way out from the rooms she'd been given with Ráva into the main rooms of the dwelling. Dís is sitting in front of a low-burning fire, a mug in her hand and a pensive expression on her face.

Tíli pauses a moment, then goes over to sit in the other chair that faces the fire, watching the face of the dwarrow who is, perhaps, her aunt. "What keeps you awake?" she asks quietly, when Dís looks up to meet her gaze.

There is silence for a long moment, while Dís studies her face, and the braids in her hair and beard.

"I do not sleep as much since I returned to Erebor from our home-in-exile." Dís shrugs, taking a sip from her mug. "Too many lost, and not enough to keep me busy and the dreams at bay."

Nodding, Tíli doesn't break the silence again immediately, but lets it settle, almost familiar and oddly comforting. Watching the fire, and letting her breathing settle into the slow rhythm of the stone, the rhythm of the forge and her craft. "Have I left it so late that I have no kin save you remaining?"

A brief, almost bitter smile quirks Dís' lips upward. "Of close kin, yes." She pauses, taking another sip from her mug. "My brother Frerin died before you were born, at Azanulbizar. Tyrdis died two days after she birthed her son early, and he with her. Named for my lost brother, and buried next to the River Running instead of in stone as they should have been. And my own sons fallen next to Thorin, defending their uncle and their home."

Silence once more, as Tíli turns over the words, contemplating the loss of kin, if Dís is right, and Tíli is her niece. "Did anyone see my birth, save the midwife?"

Dís closes her eyes, a small frown on her face. "Not as such. You came with the afterbirth, I think, and all were worrying over Tyrdis and Frerin. I wondered when the midwife bundled up something into her basket, but did not think to check if she might have taken more than the afterbirth itself. Dwarrows do not birth twins."

That much Tíli is aware of, though sometimes she wonders if it happens, but so rarely - and with such harm to each other and perhaps to the mother that none survive - that none think of it as possible. "I was one of twins, or so my father had been told when the midwife, one of the people of the Great Plain, laid me in his arms. She left my brother for the dwarrow-woman who bore us both." She pauses, drawing in a slow breath. "She was the one, too, who gave me my name. Tíli, she said had been chosen by those who gave me life."

A nod is the only response from Dís, and silence returns, broken only by the soft crackle of the flames, and an occasional pop as a log shifts. More comfortable than Tíli had thought it would be, with neither of them knowing much of the other beyond names. They do not move until Ráva comes into the room, greeting them with a polite, "Good morning."

* * *

**Third Age, 2886  
Khand**

The letter from his brother is unexpected, and the news in it more so. Dwalin is almost glad it is the campaign season, and he's in Khand fighting for one of their myriad princes who intends to be Khagan. The fighting is a distraction - and the pay for this one a ransom that Thorin would not allow him to walk away from, even with the grief that must be weighing on his king.

Dwalin doesn't like the idea of leaving Thorin to his grief, but the distance is too great to cross in any reasonable period of time. So he throws himself more into the battles, taking out his own grief for his king and cousin's loss in the familiar chaos and danger of war. It is perhaps easier done now, as their contract actively invites the death of any of their current opponents, whether mercenary or of Khand.

Nethgaraf comes to find him after the battle which had followed so soon on the heels of the raven-delivered letter, a frown on his face. He is very much in the same mold as his parents, and Ila before them, always worrying for Dwalin when news from home came to him. He'll no doubt take over the school that Ila had begun when he decides to retire.

"What news from home?" Nethgaraf would never call the same lands home that his parents once had, and Dwalin sometimes thinks he - or one of his sisters, or children when it comes to it - will follow the dwarrow back west if asked. Those born of the Mallenrim take their oaths with as much gravity as do dwarrow, and Dwalin wonders if it would be the same among men in the west.

"Death." Dwalin doesn't want much to dwell upon it, and he isn't willing to share the details even with one of his more trusted friends this far east. The letter itself he had burned after reading it. He'll never have trouble remembering the words on the parchment, though times will be that he will curse that.

There's a momentary flash of remembered pain across Nethgaraf's face, of news Dwalin can well remember himself. Ila had died on Nethgaraf's first year following Dwalin, still a boy who really should have been too young to fight. It had been the last year Cûmeril had traveled with the company, and Aurhathol had retired only a year after her.

"Do you need to return home?" That is a question he's been asked more than once by his friends, and Dwalin shakes his head. He can't return home right now without risking Thorin's wrath, no matter how much he wants to do so.

"I can't, laddie, and no use worrying about it. There's a war to fight here, and good money for it." A fee they can only earn if the prince they've been hired by wins, but Dwalin has little doubt they can do so. Temu is a dangerously intelligent and decisive tactician, and Dwalin suspects he's not the sort to bend neck to anyone, now or later. Temu will not offer his people to Mordor, and that too had been a factor of which offered contract Dwalin took.

Nethgaraf nods, and doesn't say anything else, just makes sure there is food, and a low-flamed brazier for the night in Dwalin's tent, and otherwise goes about his usual. He's still not much of a fighter, but he's proven invaluable as quartermaster and in getting the camp put up and taken down efficiently.

When the campaign is over, and Temu is acknowledged Khagan of Khand, Dwalin is torn between returning to the Ered Luin and to the shelter of the company's winter quarters in the Orocarni.

"It's perhaps a little early for your usual trek home, but Vorkha is capable of watching out for a season or more, and he'll ask as needed for assistance picking good contracts." Nethgaraf is riding next to Dwalin on the road home that leads home, regardless of his choice. "And you can take your share of the fee with you all the sooner."

Which is no small amount, though it still would not even be a fraction of what they had lost in the fall of Erebor. "I might, at that." It would keep dwarrows from starving if they're short on work, at least. It won't bring Thorin much solace, he knows, because there's nothing that will bring back Tyrdis or the infant Frerin that had died with her. Though it will make it more certain Dís' two boys are kept from hunger, and that will give Thorin some peace of mind, at least.

* * *

**Third Age, 2991  
Erebor**

Dwalin leans back in his chair, setting the quill back in the ink-pot he'd borrowed from the archivists. The letter is brief, and to the point, but he's not sure how it will be received, regardless. His brother needs to come home, he and Ori both, especially if Tíli really is the daughter of Thorin, as Dís is already thinking. Has, he suspects, been thinking since first she saw the other dwarrow-woman.

The resemblance is uncanny, and some of her mannerisms too remind him of Thorin, but how can he - how can any of them - be certain? Whether she is or is not, though, Dwalin is certain the entire company, save the hobbit, need to be in Erebor. They need to be at hand if it is proven certain Tíli is the daughter of Thorin, or if it is proven she is not, and merely bears a strong resemblance to him. For whatever may come - either to support her in whatever she chooses to do, or to be present for Dís if it goes poorly.

He sighs, and reaches for wax to seal the letter, and contemplating for a moment a messenger on as fast a horse as they have, or one of the ravens that nest in the heights of the mountain. The raven will be faster, and the faster Balin returns to Erebor, the better. Getting up, he makes his way toward the heights to find a raven to carry the letter. The birds are useful, but he hasn't been particularly fond of them since the first letter they'd brought to him, summoning him home for the battle of Azanulbizar.

Dwalin wishes that had been the last time he lost a king.

"Telling Balin to come home?" Nori is waiting when he comes down from the heights, leaning against a wall as if he's relaxed, which Dwalin doubts.

"And to bring Ori and Óin with him." Dwalin nods, continuing back down into the mountain, heading for the practice grounds where he can keep up his skill with hammer and axe while working off his uneasiness with this situation. "What do you want, Nori?"

Nori shrugs. "To find out more about this dwarrow-woman who has convinced you she's what she appears to be."

That Nori would be suspicious of someone's claims is both surprising and not - who better to sniff out a lie than someone who lies for a living? Dwalin looks over at him for a long moment. "Ask Dís if you can dine with her guest, if you want to learn more of Tíli. I don't know more than I've seen and what Dís has told me."

"Perhaps I ought." Nori shrugs, unperturbed by Dwalin's reticence in talking about Tíli. He's silent for a long moment, and Dwalin can all but hear the gears turning in his head. "What do you think of her, Mister Dwalin?" There's something almost sly about the question, and Dwalin wonders for a brief moment if anyone other than Dori would miss the irritating thief.

"I do not yet know." Dwalin doesn't want to think about how much alike Tíli is in appearance to Thorin, nor how much what little he wonders how closely her personality parallels the same. Not until he can be certain she is Thorin's daughter, and then...

He snorts at his thoughts, giving a mental shake of his head to drive them away. If she is Thorin's daughter, than he will deal with what comes of that. If she is not, than he will have nothing more to worry about save how best to send her on her way and comfort Dís for the pain it will bring her.

Nori is watching him still, and though he doesn't say anything, Dwalin knows he's taking in everything he sees Dwalin do, and whatever of Dwalin's thoughts may be clear by his expression. It's not a very comfortable thought, even after the journey they made in good company, or the years since that Nori has been all but respectable, at least in Erebor. Dwalin doesn't know what Nori does when he's away from the mountain, and doesn't wish to know - any more than anyone else does, save Dori.

"I will take my leave of you, then," is all Nori says, when they come close to the practice hall, and walks away down one of the corridors that branches off into the mountain. Dwalin isn't certain he wants to know what Nori is up to, but he's equally certain he'll hear of it sooner or later.

With an amused snort, he continues on his way, wondering if perhaps he ought to send a letter to Dragon's Teeth as well, and see what Vorkha or Alari can tell him of River's Cradle and Tíli.

* * *

"I would meet your guests, cousin Dís."

Tíli is rewrapping black leather on the hilt of her favored knife, one of her mastery-gifts from her teachers, when she hears someone speaking in the outermost room. She glances at Ráva, raising an eyebrow, and he frowns slightly before shaking his head. There's not the sense, then, of contained and focused fire that he has marked in her and in Dís. It makes her wonder if the fire is something unique to one line of one family, or if perhaps the dwarrow speaking to Dís is a cousin-by-marriage rather than one of blood, and speaks with such familiarity because they are close.

"You might have asked earlier in the day, Dáin." Dís doesn't sound nearly as friendly as Dáin had attempted to, though Tíli can hear them coming closer, and she shifts so she can see the door, while still working on the knife-hilt. "It is nearly time for dinner, and I had not intended to feed more than myself and my guests."

Dís comes through the door first, followed by an older dwarrow, who looks at Tíli with quickly-hidden surprise, and at Ráva with barely-veiled annoyance. As if there is something about the avari which he finds distasteful. It makes Tíli bristle for her friend's sake, frowning at the dwarrow when he returns his gaze to her, and doesn't get to her feet until she's finished wrapping the hilt of her knife. It's a calculated rudeness that she'd learned from her cousin, and well suits the behavior of Dáin.

"Tíli of River's Cradle, at your service," she says as she makes a shallow bow, giving him the barest of courtesies. Behind Dáin, Tíli can see Dís suppress a smile, her eyes warm with what Tíli hopes is amusement.

"Dáin, at yours." He doesn't give her any indication of who he might be, studying her instead, while behind him, Dís frowns. "You look much like him, but that does not mean you are Thorin's daughter."

"If I am, then I am, and if I am not, than I have not lost both foster-father and blood-father." Tíli shrugs, wondering why it's important enough to Dáin to mention she might not be kin to Dís through her dead brother. What had Thorin been? "What does it matter?"

Dáin blinks and raises an eyebrow, turning to give Dís a surprised look, as if there is something he had expected she would have told Tíli. Dís merely gives him a grim smile, and shakes her head. Whatever it is, she either does not intend to tell Tíli, or will tell Tíli in her own time.

"Since you are here, you should join us for dinner, Dáin." Dís doesn't look happy at making the invitation, and Dáin looks momentarily weary before he nods, then finds a seat in which to settle, once again watching Tíli.

Tíli returns to her seat, picking up another knife, unwrapping the hilt with the same care she takes to wrap them, discarding worn leather and drawing another piece of fresh from the bowl of water she'd placed them in before beginning the task.

Dís vanishes after a moment, presumably to inform her cook there is another mouth to feed for dinner. Tíli waits until she's been gone for several minutes before she looks over at Dáin, studying him much as he's studying her.

"What does it matter if my blood-father is Thorin?" Tíli keeps her voice low, watching Dáin for his reaction.

Dáin doesn't respond immediately, watching her with speculation and glancing toward the door as if to watch for Dís, first. "Thorin Oakenshield was my cousin."

It really doesn't tell Tíli why it is so important to be certain of her parentage, but it's perhaps part of it. Whatever Dáin inherited from Thorin, he likely doesn't wish to relinquish - and at the moment, Tíli has no reason to make any claims on what Thorin may have left for his heirs.

"And he left you wealth, that you fear Tíli will covet?" Ráva's question reminds Dáin that the avari is in the room, and Tíli watches his expression turn to suspicion, as the dwarrow watches Ráva.

"What does it matter to you, elf, what my cousin may have left to me?" Dáin crosses his arms, and Tíli shifts, though she keeps to her work with her knives. Ráva is more than able to defend himself if need be, and no dwarrow would strike a guest in another's home.

Ráva shrugs, tilting his head slightly to watch Dáin in return. "Tíli is my oath-sister, and a friend like none I have had before, even among dwarrows. I would not have her harmed because you fear she is Thorin's blood-daughter."

"She will not be harmed in my hall, Lord Ráva." Dís has returned, and stands in the doorway, watching them with an expression Tíli can't read. "Nor turned out."

"I did not - and do not - doubt you would prevent such a thing, Lady Dís." Ráva smiles warmly, leaning back in his chair easily. As if he had never even suggested that Dáin might do something untoward in his concern about Tíli's potential claim to whatever inheritance he had from Thorin.

Dís watches him for a moment before nodding, and turning back toward the dining hall. "Dinner is ready."

**Author's Note:**

> There is a second chapter in progress, though I don't know how long it will be until it's posted, as a tangent has distracted me (and nearly 18k later, I'm still motoring on it).


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